It was 2018, and I busied myself trying to learn the chords of Bohemian Rhapsody, all because I saw it in the theaters with my friends and decided to make it my personality for a good two months. That’s when you entered my room, settled onto the bed beside me, and asked, “Lagu Queen, ya?” to which I simply replied with an affirming hum.
You remained seated there, making your patient presence known, while I kept going through the chords until I finally grasped the strumming pattern of the first minute of the song. You then left with Mamah for a little date at the mall, and I stopped the Queen session to start practicing the chords for the songs I had to play for the praise and worship assignment due the following day.
Little did I know, that assignment would later be postponed by a week for me, and that brief exchange would be the last time I’d ever talk to you.
Let me tell you, grief does have stages, but not in the way you often hear about. At least, not in my experience. The first stage is one of confusion. Everything goes by in a flash; one moment, you’re in front of the emergency room wishing everything would go well, and the next, you’re on the phone with your closest friends, sharing the news. Suddenly, you find yourself on the way to the funeral home. You don’t know whether you should cry or laugh, stay quiet or crack jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood. You’re just… lost.
The following days felt like a blur; people would come to offer their condolences, and I met numerous unfamiliar faces who claimed to have known me since I was a pigtailed toddler prancing about the room.
The next stage strikes you like the stainless steel trays that comedically hit the heads of Korean celebrities when they fail at getting the lyrics right in a karaoke game. This is when you start crying and lose all your energy doing so. You don’t feel like going out and greeting everyone — something my family understood well at the time (or whether it was just the perks of being the youngest, I too don’t know). You end up sleeping the whole day and missing so much, but you never get tired of drifting off to dreamland if it means escaping from the chaos in fact.
Lastly, the stage where you finally become conscious of what’s been happening for the past few days. I’d say it’s a pretty good equivalent of the acceptance stage. I remember reality settling within me — that it would be just Mamah, Koko, and me from that point forward. I remember the tears, the quiet sobs, and the moments when I couldn’t even cry as I had already wasted what felt like two months worth of my tears in just days. But I also remember sharing a laugh with Koko when I told him that you were probably watching over your own consolation service, dressed in your striped polo shirt and cargo shorts, right down to your hiking sandals. I imagined you smiling over the absurdity of the whole thing. You were always the type to think that death was inevitable, and crying over it was no use.
But we’re humans, Pah, and the ability to feel is what makes us human. You were loved, heavily, by the people around you, and it was evident from the way they spoke about you. I don’t blame them for shedding tears.
And five — well, four years and three months, pass by like a gust of wind. Just like that.
It’s 2023, and I thought of you. I’m seated in front of my laptop as I write this, my mind wandering within its own little bubble. I find myself wondering what life would’ve been like had resuscitation succeeded. Of course, nothing comes to mind. It’s ironic that even though I might hold the unofficial title of ‘The Most Delusional Friend,’ I’m forever cursed with the inability to envision alternate realities when I’m aware of the existing one.
But what I find funny is that if you could ask fourteen year-old me where she sees herself being in a few years’ time, she’d respond with an unconfident smile and a gentle shake of her head. Not a trace of optimism in sight — just the faintest glint of hope in her eyes that she can survive wherever life takes her. And here I am, amidst a plethora of projects I have to take care of and a rollercoaster of emotions I never knew I was capable of feeling, I’m so grateful to just be present.
Mamah and Koko often mention that I take after you in the personality department, and while I always roll my eyes in response as I can’t seem to pinpoint what it is exactly that makes me so much like you, I like that it’s one of the few ways your loved ones can remember your presence. And since we’re so alike, I figure you’d know best out of all people how much I hate change. However, whether we like it or not, life goes on. Though you’ll remain in my mind, my dreams (do pay me another visit someday), and my prayers, I have to move forward.
I like to think that you’re watching over me — watching the confusion that colors my face when I struggle to learn new material, the stupid jokes I tell my friends to see them smile, the exhausting yet exhilarating dance practices I have every week, the silent crying in my room when life becomes overwhelming, and yes, even my questionable choice in crushes (by any chance, is the lack of romance in my life your doing? I’m kidding).
All that aside, I genuinely hope you’re proud of the woman I’ve become. Because every instance of trial and error I’ve lived through has ultimately brought me to this sad attempt at a love letter. It’s definitely long overdue, but don’t blame me; it’s only now that I’ve gathered the courage to confront grief head-on.
Happy birthday, Pah! You’d have been 57.
